


The One Where Everyone's Living and Jewish

by rachelisnotcool



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: F/F, Fluff, Pesach | Passover
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-04
Updated: 2015-04-06
Packaged: 2018-03-21 06:36:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,568
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3681738
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rachelisnotcool/pseuds/rachelisnotcool
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Margaery goes to Sansa's family's seder. It goes about as well as expected.</p>
<p>----------</p>
<p>A Passover fic to balance out all the Easter ones.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Part Where Margaery Goes To Sansa's Seder and Arya Tries To Comfort People

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sunkelles](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunkelles/gifts).



> What's this??? Two fics in two days??? Must be a miracle.

It’s half past five when Sansa and Margaery pull into the driveway of Sansa’s childhood home. Technically, they were supposed to have been there for four thirty, but Margaery had kind of... distracted Sansa for twenty minutes, and then Sansa had had to fix her hair and makeup and shower again, shouting curses at Margaery all the while, and then they had accidentally left the kosher lemon cake Sansa had had to scour three grocery stores for at home, and then they had needed gas. All in all, not a great start to the evening.

 

Sansa pushes open the door of the car, breathless, and clutches the cake to her chest.

 

“Oh, God, we’re so late,” Sansa says, jogging up the driveway. Margaery, who has longer legs, keeps pace with her at a brisk walk.

 

“I’m sure it’s fine. It doesn’t start until sundown, right?”

 

“Yeah, three stars in the sky, but we’re missing all the pleasantries and helping my mum cook and I think my Zaida’s here and he probably won’t make it to next year and you’ve never done this before...”

 

Margaery grips Sansa by the wrists. Sansa stops jogging and turns to face her.

 

“Sansa, calm down. It’s going to be great, okay? And don’t worry about me. We get to drink four glasses of wine each. This is like, my ideal holiday.” Sansa laughs and lays her head on Margaery’s shoulder.

 

Margaery holds Sansa’s free hand in both of hers and presses a kiss to Sansa’s forehead, then to her lips. Sansa kisses back, softly at first, but pretty soon she’s running her hand through Margaery’s hair and pulling her closer.

 

“Hey!” a voice interrupts them. “You two!” Arya is standing in the doorway in a too small apron that Sansa suspects was hers once, pointing a ladle accusingly. “Stop making out with your girlfriend, Sansa, and help me make this stupid soup.”

 

Sansa laughs and smiles contritely. “Sorry. I’ll go now.” She squeezes Margaery’s hand one last time and disappears through the front door.

 

“And you,” says Arya, “would it kill you to _get a room_?”

 

“Nice to see you too, Arya,” she says.

 

“Yeah, yeah,” Arya grumbles, but she’s smiling.

 

\----------

 

“Zaida, Bubba,” Arya says, pushing through the masses of Starks and Tullys and plus ones, “this is Sansa’s girlfriend, Margaery Tyrell.”

 

Margaery holds out her hand. “Nice to meet you.”

 

Arya’s grandfather, who Sansa’s mentioned once or twice, shakes her hand. He has a firm sort of grip. As a child of Mace Tyrell, Margaery can appreciate a good handshake.

 

“Rickard Stark,” he says. “Nice to meet you.” He has a very Ned sort of look in his eyes, Margaery decides. Quiet in a wise sort of way. He’s old, but Margaery thinks he would’ve been handsome once. He has a thick accent as well, something Eastern European, Polish or Ukrainian, maybe. She smiles at him.

 

“Tyrell doesn’t sound like a very Jewish name,” says Sansa’s grandmother.

 

“It’s not,” Margaery admits. “We’re Catholic. Well, more secular than anything.”

 

“Hm,” says the grandmother, coldly, and Margaery feels the smile melt off her face.

 

“Don’t be such a Yente, Lyarra,” says Rickard. “She seems like a perfectly nice girl.”

 

“Sansa likes her a lot,” Arya adds. They stand there awkwardly for a minute. Margaery coughs. 

 

“Alright,” says Arya, “speaking of Sansa, let’s go see how she is.” Margaery is all too happy to oblige.

 

“Sorry about that,” says Arya, once they’re out of earshot. “She told Sansa and me to bring home nice Jewish boys when we were kids and well, Sansa brought home you. I don’t think she’s forgiven her.”

 

“It’s fine,” says Margaery sadly.

 

“Come off it,” says Arya, “she’s old and she’ll be dead soon. For some incomprehensible reason, you really love Sansa. You can still marry my sister and have too many annoying peppy children and dogs and cats and shit. So what if it makes her spin in her grave? You’re completely out of Sansa’s league, anyway, so she should take what she can get.”

 

“Thanks.” Arya might lack some of Sansa’s finesse in dealing with emotions and people, but she certainly tries. “I really appreciate that.”

 

“You’re welcome,” says Arya, waving frantically at a tall, lanky, long-haired boy that Margaery’s seen in pictures. “Hey! Jon! Over here!”

 

“Hey,” says Jon. “Margaery Tyrell, right?”

 

“Yeah,” says Margaery. “That’s me.”

 

“I knew your brother in high school. Loras, right? He and I played hockey together. He was good. How’s he doing?”

 

“He’s doing pretty well. He and his boyfriend Renly moved to New York a couple months ago.”

 

“Yeah, they’ve--” Someone covers her eyes from behind her before she can finish her sentence.

 

“Guess who,” says Sansa, an octave deeper than her regular voice, giggling. Margaery can hear Jon laughing.

 

“You two are disgusting,” says Arya.

 

Sansa lowers her hands and wraps her arms around Margaery’s waist, resting her head on Margaery’s shoulder. “Did you miss me?”

 

“So much,” says Margaery, grinning. “I was about to throw myself from a cliff out of loneliness.”

 

“Good thing we prevented that,” says Sansa.

 

“I’m going to throw up,” says Arya.

 

Margaery turns and kisses Sansa.

 

Arya retches.

 

“I love you,” says Margaery, leaning back to kiss Sansa again. 

 


	2. The Part Where Sansa's Sick Of Passover and Margaery's The Best Girlfriend Ever

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All of my titles sound like Fall Out Boy song titles.

It’s 6 PM and Margaery has just found her way home from work. She munches on a slice of microwave pizza as she prepares for a long night of marathoning Gossip Girl. Sansa collapses on her lap, groaning.

 

“What?” Margaery asks, smiling and stroking Sansa’s hair.

 

“This is the worst,” Sansa mumbles. “I hate this holiday. I haven’t had bread in three days, matzah tastes like the box it comes in, and I’m going to stab myself with a shard of it if this goes on any longer.”

 

“Come on,” says Margaery. “I’m sure it isn’t that bad.”

 

“And,” Sansa says, sitting up, “you’re sitting here _flaunting_ your stupid bread-y pizza that you know perfectly well I can’t eat. And,” she continues, before Margaery can interrupt, “I just got my period.”

 

“Babe,” Margaery says sympathetically, putting down her pizza to wrap her arms around Sansa. “Let’s go out for dinner. Surely we can find something that doesn’t involve bread. How about sushi? I know how you love sushi.”

 

Sansa groans. “I can’t. Rice.”

 

“I thought Jewish people could eat rice during Passover.”

 

“No, Sephardim and Mizrahim can eat rice. We’re Ashkenazi.”

 

Margaery doesn’t understand half of what Sansa just said, but she nods. “Alright, what about cheeseburgers?”

 

Sansa snorts. “Oh, yeah, let me just tell God to go fuck himself twice. Once with milk and meat and once with buns, which last I checked, were made out of bread.”

 

“Chicken fingers?”

 

“Oh, you mean _breaded_ chicken fingers?”

 

Margaery sighs. “Damn. This is harder than I thought.”

 

Sansa snorts again. “You’re telling me.”

 

“What if we just made brownies or something?”

 

“Flour and leavening.”

 

“Popcorn?”

 

“Corn’s a legume.”

 

“So?”

 

“Legumes aren’t allowed.”

 

“Christ, Sansa,” says Margaery as she picks up her pizza again. “You know what?” she says, tossing it back onto the plate and wandering into the kitchen.

 

“What are you doing?” asks Sansa as Margaery rummages through the cabinets. Margaery ignores her as she wraps her pizza in tinfoil.

 

“If you can’t eat pizza,” says Margaery, “I won’t either. We can both make pizza on matzah. That’s allowed, right? Cheese and tomatoes are okay?”

 

“Cheese and tomatoes are okay,” Sansa confirms, getting up from the couch to follow Margaery into the kitchen.

 

“Well,” Margaery says, spilling the meagre contents of the fridge onto the counter. “We have cheese, we have tomato sauce, and um... anchovies?” Sansa wrinkles her nose. “Alright, cheese pizza it is, then.” There’s a slight pause. “Where do you keep the matzah?”

 

Sansa giggles. “It’s the cardboard box on the counter.” Margaery pulls out two pieces of matzah, places them on the counter, and begins to spread the tomato sauce. “Be careful,” Sansa warns, “the matzah’s pretty brittle. It could--” Margaery breaks a piece of matzah clean in half. “Snap,” she finishes sheepishly.

 

“Do you want to do this?” Margaery asks, shoving the sauce over to Sansa.

 

“Okay,” Sansa says, smiling, “you go back to Gossip Girl. I’ve got this.”

 

True to her word, Sansa returns with the matzah pizzas twenty minutes later.

 

“So you didn’t break them,” Margaery observes. Sansa laughs.

 

“No, I didn’t break them.” She hands Margaery her plate. Margaery chews thoughtfully.

 

“It’s not bad. The matzah’s a little tasteless,” she says, “but it could be worse.”

 

“It could be. I could be without my wonderful girlfriend, for one thing,” Sansa says as she sits down on the couch, putting an arm around Margaery. Margaery laughs lightly.

 

“You’re too kind.”

 

“No,” says Sansa, “I’m not. I love you, Margaery.”

 

“I love you too,” says Margaery. “Now shush. I’m trying to watch.” Sansa laughs. 

 

“By the way,” Margaery asks, when they’re fitting together like their bodies were made for it and they’ve fallen into a comfortable silence. “How much longer can you not eat bread for?”

 

“Why? Are you going to keep it too?” Sansa asks. Margaery smiles.

 

“Maybe.”

 

“You sure?” Sansa says. “It’s a long holiday.”

 

“I can do it,” says Margaery confidently. “How much longer?”

 

“Five days,” answers Sansa.

 

“Okay,” Margaery concedes, “maybe a little less time than that.” Sansa laughs.

 

“Wimp.”

 

“Yeah, yeah,” grumbles Margaery, but her grin threatens to split her face in half.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just FYI, Ashkenazi Jews mostly hail from Eastern Europe, Sephardi Jews mostly hail from the Iberian peninsula, Mizrahi Jews mostly hail from the Middle East, Maghrebi Jews mostly hail from Northern Africa. Different customs; same religion.

**Author's Note:**

> FYI, a yente is Yiddish slang for a gossipy woman. Yay, Yiddish slang! (https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Yiddish_words_used_in_English)


End file.
